


Jailhouse Rock

by Nerdoftheworld



Series: Greased Lightning and Milkshakes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Alternate Universe - High School, Dancing, Drabble, Greaser Bucky Barnes, Greaser Steve Rogers, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Rock and Roll, Studying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 15:49:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdoftheworld/pseuds/Nerdoftheworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> There’s no denying that Bucky Barnes isn’t the damn best screamer greaser Steve has ever laid eyes on.</i>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <i>But Steve seems to be the only one to know that it’s all fake, just a persona that Bucky created to escape himself for a little. Sure, Bucky does everything expected of a greaser - he loves working on machines, his hair is always slicked back with his trusty comb, he smokes like a chimney, rock and roll lyrics constantly at the tip of his tongue and his thick combat boots thumping around the hallways. But all Steve knows is that whenever you let Bucky alone to his own advantages, he always somehow regresses to a complete and total nerd with a big head full of questions about space and the stars.</i>
</p>
<p>(Or, Greaser boyfriends studying and playing records)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jailhouse Rock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [senashenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/senashenta/gifts).



> Just a little something I (badly) wrote for an AU Sena and I have been talking about. 
> 
> This is going to be part of a series, so this is just a little intro into it. 
> 
> Enjoy.

“Hey, Steve, you mind changing the record? I love Ruth Brown, but I’m about to knock out here,” 

 

Steve looks up from his textbook, pen still twirling in his fingers with the smoothest movement that any artist can retain. It moves along his index and goes all the way down to his pinky before making it’s way back to the starting point, all the while never using his thumb or dropping it. It helps exercise his fingers to keep them sharp. 

 

In front of him is Bucky, glasses slipping off his nose as he writes a mile a minute in his notebook yet his nose and eyebrows are pinched in confusion over whatever it is he’s writing. Which is saying a lot considering how much smarter the teen is compared to their whole graduating class. The light from Steve’s window catches on the chocolate curls on top his head and almost blinds Steve on how angelic the little shit appears even when he’s whispering profanities under his breathe. Though no matter how many curses he lets past his bitten lips, Ruth Brown is setting the mood with her rich and scratchy voice, making the scene softer and more relaxed than any other artist can in a moment like this when time isn’t a thing around them anymore in the hues of a honeydew yellow and intense oranges bouncing off the walls of his bedroom. 

 

Bucky frowns towards the numbers under his pen, leaning his square jaw on his fist supported on his scrawny knee. He peers up behind glass to Steve, eyebrows still furrowed. “Whatcha lookin’ at, Rogers?” he says, mouth moving over words that come out funny, “Put on something to keep me awake. I can’t afford to fail that geometry test tomorrow because you’re too busy starin’, ya know,”

 

“Sorry, Buck. Just wondering how I ended up with an ugly square like yourself,” Steve chuckles, ignoring the eraser thrown his way by the smaller teen, who is currently setting his things down on the sheets before him. In one swift move, Bucky is on his feet and already at the rack of vinyls in the wooden crate pressed against the corner of Steve’s room. Bucky bends down to flip through the albums, seemingly forgetting that he’s only wearing a pair of light blue boxer shorts and a sweater that’s twice his own size. The blonde isn’t complaining, instead, he’s leaning against the wall with his fingers knitted behind his head as he admires the sight. 

 

It’s rare he gets to see Bucky like this now that school started. Usually nowadays he only ever spots the other hanging by the bleachers surrounded by a group of loud-mouth and perverted Johns who constantly are getting into fights with any unfortunate soul that happens across them. He isn’t as relaxed at school, not like when he and Steve are alone and doing homework - amongst other things. He does things and says things this Bucky never could, never dare even think it without shuddering from how vile it is. Yet over the summer, when Bucky wasn’t pressured by the gang to hang with them and he could pass the vacation letting himself breathe in his own skin instead whatever it is he dawns upon himself when he goes out to paint the town. 

 

The teen bounces back with an album in hand, smirking so wide that Steve can tell will one day eat him whole, but he’d be completely okay with it if Bucky continues to sway around the blonde’s room like it were his own. His socked feet barely make a sound, padding towards the record player with the album held at arm’s length to read the cover. His bottom lips is being worried under his teeth as he carefully removes the needle from the Ruth Brown record, takes it out, and replaces it with the new one. 

 

“Don’t go scratching my records, now,” Steve says, bowing his head to resume his reading. He can practically hear Bucky rolling his eyes near the player. “Unless they’re the ones that you bought me then by all means, scratch away,”

 

“Shut it!” the brunette calls, smirk replaced with a scrunched up frown as he sticks the top of his pen in his mouth. The sight drives Steve insane. Not only because it’s seductive as all Hell, but Steve has had his fair share of returned pens looking like the Wolfman got his fangs on them.  There’s white noise for a moment, then the heavy strum of strings on a guitar sound out throughout the room and Bucky gets that goofy grin on his face again. 

 

He nods along to the boisterous voice blaring from the speakers, narrowed eyes and big smile staring at Steve. There’s a pause before Steve realizes that the teen’s lips are starting to turn up into an even wider grin, and before he knows it, James Buchanan Barnes is swaying his thin hips around as the chorus hits. 

 

_ Let's rock, everybody, let's rock _

_ Everybody in the whole cell block _

_ Was dancin' to the Jailhouse Rock _

 

Steve laughs at the ridiculous movements, ignoring how uncoordinated Bucky’s hips are compared to the actual dance that Elvis himself put in motion. His own movements are jerky and awkward, his feet constantly slipping on Steve’s hardwood floors in those disgusting socks covered in oil and holes that his boyfriend refuses to throw away. 

 

The more the song goes on, the closer Bucky gets to Steve’s spot with his usually well-kept hair falling limply over his eyes and curling back up naturally. If they were at school, the latter can imagine Bucky wiping out the small black comb he usually kept in the back of his pocket to smoothly slick back any stray strands. The image is enjoyable - the thought of Bucky in his Howling Commando gang leather jacket, cigarette lit between his lips with grease covered all over his hair and bruises all over the surface of his knuckles. There’s no denying that Bucky Barnes isn’t the damn best screamer greaser Steve has ever laid eyes on. 

 

But Steve seems to be the only one to know that it’s all fake, just a persona that Bucky created to escape himself for a little. Sure, Bucky does everything expected of a greaser - he loves working on machines, his hair is always slicked back with his trusty comb, he smokes like a chimney, rock and roll lyrics constantly at the tip of his tongue and his thick combat boots thumping around the hallways. But all Steve knows is that whenever you let Bucky alone to his own advantages, he always somehow regresses to a complete and total nerd with a big head full of questions about space and the stars. Hell, Steve himself isn't a real greaser - a flat out imitation but at least he can admit that to himself.  


Bucky drifts closer to Steve, bent down with pursed lips to capture Steve in a quick kiss. His hips and ass are still moving, and his knees are bouncing in tempo with music. The blonde sighs, the snapping of Bucky’s fingers getting closer to his face getting real annoying, real fast. “Cut it out, Buck,” Steve mutters, batting the hand away from his face. "You already got peepers, do you need something for your hearing too? I said cut it you," Bucky continues though, now his other hand going up to do it too. Steve breathes in heavily, before throwing his textbook to the side and wrapping both his arms around Bucky’s torso. 

 

Pulling over onto his lap, Steve ignores the squawk of protest from the latter as he situates Bucky to sit on his lap. He still has his arms around his thin torso, letting the mop of chestnut curls rest comfortably on the blonde’s shoulder. The next song on the record starts to play with the soothing tapping of a piano, Elvis’ voice coming out in a smooth string of lovely words that are so different from the previous song. Young and Beautiful is Bucky favorite song, one that he replays constantly whenever he finds the record among Steve’s lacking collection (“ _Not my fault Elvis’ got me on the hook. ‘Sides, this song is real rock_ ,”).

 

Steve leans so that his lips hover over the shell of Bucky’s ear, pressing a kiss to his temple before whispering out the lyrics back to the still giggling teen. The body in his arms is warm, real as he leans back comfortably on Steve’s chest and bends his knees towards the ceiling when his lover’s hand lightly trail up to his kneecap. The mix of his own voice with Elvis is doing a wonderful number on Bucky, his eyelids fluttering slowly as they try to stay open but eventually fail as Bucky lets his head roll backwards even further to expose his pale neck towards Steve. 

 

Steve starts to rock the two to and fro, cheek to cheek for the remainder of the song before it fades to nothing like the first song did yet they still sit there together as the sun sets in front of them, just out of the pristine white window sill. 

 

“You’re my cloud nine, babydoll,” Steve whispers, right into the greaser’s ear as the other grins. 

 

“Get bent, ya punk,” 

  
Steve kisses Bucky’s cheek, squeezing his arms tighter around him. “Jerk,”


End file.
